Persistence of Memory
by Vecturist
Summary: A routine jumper mission goes awry, leaving McKay hurt and Sheppard facing a few personal demons. Written for the Sheppard hc lj secret santa exchange


Written for secret santa on the Sheppard-hc lj.

Disclaimer: Not mine, spoilers through mid-season 4

Lt. Colonel Sheppard almost smiled to himself at the relative quiet in the 'jumper, all systems normal, no wraith following; furious typing with the occasional sharp exhalation of breath and muttered 'ha,' following a compliant computer beep the only noise for the moment. For the moment, being the typical disclaimer, since that relative silence was soon shattered, as it usually was, by a certain Canadian physicist.

"I cannot believe Radek was ready to upload this protocol the main server. Sure, it looks fine at first glance, but I'm sure there's some line of code that's certain to set-off some chain reaction disaster that I'll wind up having to fix. If he'd just talked to me beforehand and saved me this headache," sputtered the man in question, as if on cue.

"McKay," Sheppard started in a warning tone, casting a surreptitious glance at his watch as he kneaded his temples, wishing he could push away his own headache already threatening to build. Normally, he would have enjoyed baiting McKay under these conditions, but these were not normal conditions. So much had happened recently, between their frantic flight from the Asurans and losing Elizabeth, to the realization that the universe still had a few more ways to try to kill him, or at least make him seriously question his sanity. On top of everything, he'd had a hard week breaking in a new set of recruits. The SGC prided themselves on finding the best of the best for their programs, but sometimes Sheppard wished they'd lower their standards a little and get a few more people who were capable of thinking a little more creatively and outside the box. Of course, those were precisely the types the military tended not to promote and the SGC didn't pursue, unless by some fluke accident. He'd never admit it, especially to McKay, but sometimes he thought the scientists, particularly those involved in fieldwork, were better able to cope with the unexpected. Adding to the stress was a particular private anniversary of sorts, not one he'd ever mark on a calendar, looming in the back of his mind, which is why he'd used his rank to pull pick-up duty from Lorne.

He'd hoped for some time alone with his thoughts, except that McKay had invited himself along at the last minute, claiming he could no longer stand to be in the lab, in the presence of such idiots, especially Zelenka, and that the last time Sheppard had undertaken such a mission, he'd been captured by sexy aliens, so without further explanation the Canadian had scrambled up the ramp and flung himself into the co-pilot's seat, pouting. From his posturing, complete with crossed arms, Colonel Sheppard deduced there'd been a major disagreement in the physics lab that morning, and from the way that McKay was scowling at his laptop perched on his knee, it'd appeared to be one of the few occasions he was wrong about something.

Shortly after take-off, McKay had seized his laptop with a newfound zeal and set to work, apparently determined to find some flaw or missed calculation. Sheppard didn't ask what he working on, and McKay was wholly involved in his project, occasionally mumbling to himself, most of which he could tune out, content to focus on the flight. In a small way he was glad to have someone else along in case things got rough, not that he expected them to, and if that the case, Ronon or Teyla would have been a much better choice. Not to mention the fact that both of them felt no compelling need to fill the silence. Teyla would simply be meditating, and Ronon, well, he wasn't sure what went on in Ronon's head sometimes, whether he'd always been the strong silent type, or if it had been something learned the hard way from seven years on the run from the Wraith.

"Well, I haven't heard any of the sacks bleating, so I don't think they gave us a lamb as a going away gift, although they could have drugged it for the trip back," started McKay again, deciding to challenge the warning look. "Who knows what those leaves and twigs are for. Of course, if there is a sheep in there, that equates to a couple lamb chops." McKay paused mid-rant for a moment. "I was completely convinced he'd brought one back from his last trip, a couple days before… Didn't find any little fuzzy ball of wool, though in his room, McKay's added wistfully. "Maybe he gave it to the Athosians," he added after a moment's thought in a tone of defiance, as if daring the person in question to suddenly materialize and threaten him for all the sheep jokes.

The colonel merely glared at McKay for a long moment before turning his gaze back to the HUD. He guessed this was progress, at least on McKay's part; that he had graduated to using pronouns and making sheep jokes. Sheppard, however, wasn't sure if he was there yet himself. Carson Beckett was the name of yet another friend he couldn't save and he knew the logical continuation of McKay's commentary would simply add more acid for his already churning stomach, so he opted for a distraction.

"I could always tell medical you're really allergic to one leaf in particular, and I'm not talking about poison ivy, or lemon for that matter, McKay. I'm sure they'd be more than willing to let that one Russian nurse, Ivan I think his name is, take care of any suturing next time." Despite his recent adventures, he was still a little uneasy referring to Dr. Keller as the Chief Medical Officer. He had witnessed first-hand her competence (and even her willingness to go against his orders), but still he couldn't shake the thought she was only a few years past braces and pigtails.

"You wouldn't. The man's old-school Russian, a complete barbarian. How he ever got approved for Atlantis I don't want to know. He must have seriously bribed someone, I think the man spent a few too many years out in a Siberian outpost or gulag…"

"Which makes him well-qualified for Atlantis," answered the colonel smugly.

"Well, the man thinks anesthesia is a luxury," retorted McKay.

"Only you Rodney would demand to be unconscious for the removal of a few splinters."

"It wasn't a few splinters. They were thorns. Many. Huge. Thorns. Even my cat, at her most vicious didn't have claws that sharp or barbed," hrumphed the physicist. "Not all of us have your tolerance for pain, whether real or some warped show of manliness."

The plants in question were courtesy of the Ascoma, whom they'd heard about through contacts of Teyla's. Normally reclusive and semi-nomadic, the Ascoma had been recent victims of the Wraith and were looking for a new place to settle. They spoke in an odd dialect and seemed reluctant to ask for help, despite their predicament, at least until they encountered Dr. Beckett, whom they decided was a lost-long relative given his brogue. The fact that he was a doctor also quickly thawed relations, since the Ascoma, long ago, had been renowned for their medical skills. Those days were long past, but they had retained a fairly extensive knowledge of herbs, and were now willing to share. McKay, dubious, had snickered under his breath until the Ascoma started demonstrating. They had a few plants with antibiotic properties or that could reduce fevers, but most impressive was a root that when pulverized and applied to the skin was an extremely effective numbing agent. That had certainly enamored the medical staff and most of the infirmary regulars given the lack of needles required and the root was as effective as conventional drugs.

The Ascoma had promptly been resettled with Atlantis' help and had invited Dr. Beckett to visit once their crops of herbs had begun to grow. However, the Ascoma had clung to their reclusive ways and had settled on a planet with no nearby gates, necessitating the use of a jumper. It was a small price to pay, however, for always-needed medical supplies. Still, the trip this time was bittersweet without the Scotsman, and there had been more than a few uncomfortable moments of silence.

Sheppard sighed to himself as the jumper approached the closest space Stargate, preparing for the near-instantaneous trip back to Atlantis. No sooner than they had entered the event horizon, then out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of light and suddenly the jumper was careening wildly. He thought he heard McKay swear under his breath as he braced himself.

"Whoever said a good crash landing is one can walk away from should have his head examined," muttered Sheppard to himself as he tried to untangle himself and catch his breath. Everything in his chest felt tight; he must have smacked the console harder than he thought as he concentrated on trying to persuade his lungs to work.

"Ow, Sheppard, did you run out of quarters for the ride," McKay half-gasped, half-whined next to him. "Well, that laptop didn't live it to its toughness rating," he sighed. "I really should write and explain that they need to test their equipment in more real-world situations. Turning back to the colonel, he picked up his original rant. "Well, you somehow crashed us. The laws of physics do not listen to excuses."

"I'm not sure what happened, McKay. One minute we were entering the Stargate, the next we're here. Are you alright? I'm going to get out and take a look around, see how bad the damage is." Both men looked behind them to see the back of the jumper yawning open, a couple of the previously carefully stacked sacks and rough hewn crates were still intact, but it appeared most of their cargo, along with the usual equipment and supplies were scattered outside.

"Oh sure, the typical division of labor: you go survey the damage and tell me how bad it is, I get to pull off some miraculous repair yet again."

"I'll take that as a yes," Sheppard responded over his shoulder, knowing if McKay was complaining about the jumper, he was fine.

"No," he muttered a few moments later as he surveyed the landscape outside, staggering a little, suddenly everything seemed to spin around him.

"Sheppard! Colonel?" a voice yelped behind him, and he turned to look at an odd-looking vehicle several yards away. He raced up a gang-plank of sorts to find a slightly balding man pinned in a co-pilots seat, part of a shattered computer beside him. A few shards from what must have been the computer's screen and case appeared embedded in the man's chest. "Colonel, I thought I was fine until I looked down. My lung must be punctured. I can't breath. I'm going to bleed out, gasping like a fish on this unknown planet." The man's voice climbed, both in pitch and volume once he realized he had his intended audience.

Sheppard quickly assessed his companion's position and carefully maneuvered him out of the seat and onto the floor, looking around and finally spotting a first-aid kit caught in the nylon webbing overhead. Flicking the case open, he made a mental note to ask whoever was in charge to reconsider the limited supplies. Obviously this wasn't a medical chopper, but in a war zone there wasn't any excuse for being so unprepared. He deftly removed the items he did need or could work with. Alcohol was trickled over forceps and Sheppard quickly removed as many of the plastic shards as he could, before slicing through fabric and further disinfecting the wounds, hopefully washing out any smaller pieces. Satisfied with his work, he applied a couple pressure dressings over the larger gashes, watching the gauzy material contract ever so slightly over the flesh they were designed to protect, but he also wished he had a few chitosan bandages to reassure him that the blood would clot and the wounds attempt to close.

"Ow, Colonel! Warn a guy when you're going to start manhandling him and dumping alcohol in his wounds," McKay cried out as the last bandage was applied. "Are you sure you got everything out and I didn't puncture a lung? I still can't breathe." Sheppard had been silent during his ministrations, but the scientist couldn't help but feel something was off.

"Well, first you could start off by thanking me for saving your life, since I barely know you, but apparently you know me. However, why do you keep calling me Colonel? It's Major Sheppard, and that's only through some divine intervention or maybe I lucked out on a coin toss," the man kneeling above him replied, shifting a little to help McKay sit up.

"Oh c'mon Sheppard! You know me, Dr. Rodney McKay, all-around genius. Guess that hair's no protection when you smack your head against the console. I've known you for a little over four years, three of which you've been Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, United States Air Force, and military leader of the Atlantis expedition," McKay enunciated quite loudly and clearly, wincing as he finished pushing himself up into a sitting position against one of the benches.

"I don't think so. Atlantis is a resort in the Bahamas, why would they need their own military? You're a civilian? I'm guessing not a medical doctor?" Sheppard noticed the other man's emphatic 'no' as began checking himself over for his own injuries. "Despite your assertions, I'm fine." He didn't want to mention the nagging headache or the bruised ribs. He'd experienced worse when he forgot to remove things from his flight suit when pulling nine Gs, not to mention having destroyed more than a few pairs of sunglasses. "The trouble catching your breath is from the high altitude. You'll probably adjust in a day or two. In the meantime, you'll want to stay close to this… whatever this is. And keep your voice down. I don't want you alerting the local Taliban to our position," Sheppard rose to his feet. "I'm going to check the perimeter and see about getting a fire started. It's not all that warm now and once the sun sets, it's going to get even colder."

McKay shivered for a moment as if to confirm Sheppard's statement. "Sheppard, snap out of it, we're on some unknown planet in the Pegasus galaxy after you crashed going through the stargate. I don't know who might be out there, but it's definitely not the Taliban," sputtered McKay.

"And you think I hit my head, retorted Sheppard. "We're in the mountains of eastern Afghanistan, which is bad for so many reasons, a few of which I already named. Add to that the altitude's going to give us problems even if this thing's still flyable," he nodded at McKay's continued incredulous look. "You know, the higher the altitude, the smaller the distance between your minimum and maximum speeds. See if you can get the back of this closed. Otherwise, it will be little more than a wind break and we'll need to find some other way to secure this, unless it has some sort of force-field," he threw over his shoulder."

McKay sighed to himself as he surveyed what gear was left in the webbing and headed back towards the front of the puddlejumper. "Sheppard has to pick now to take a little side-trip down memory lane." His assessment of the puddlejumper's electronics also had him sighing – it appeared most of the wiring was fried, and the crystals damaged. Typical. It would be up to him yet again to cobble together something and save them.

McKay soon lost himself in his work – trying to get the back of the jumper to close and figuring out how to rig a locator signal. Navigation and sensors appeared to be out for the moment and he knew that Atlantis attempting to find them was the proverbial needle in a haystack. When they dropped out of hyperspace, they could have wound up anywhere. At least he knew the Daedalus would be arriving shortly to re-supply Atlantis and that they were probably the best bet for the search and rescue. Unfortunately that probably meant another check in Caldwell's little book of being 'owed.' The Colonel seriously needed to be in charge of Atlantis for more than a short time to understand that the Pegasus galaxy most definitely did not run according to any schedule or plan.

The physicist was so wrapped up in his attempts to fix the 'jumper that he didn't notice the time or the significant drop in temperature until he felt thing – a thermal blanket – being draped around his shoulders. Looking up, he noticed how dark it had gotten outside.

"You were so wrapped up in your work I didn't want to disturb you," commented Sheppard a little stiffly. "I've secured the perimeter as best I can for now. You should think about eating – I found a couple MREs. You think a test project like this could afford some better food."

"Test project?" asked McKay. H had hoped that some time outside had forced Sheppard to clear his head, but it appeared he was still in his solo regressive psychoanalysis.

"Yes, test project. Why else would a civilian like you be partnered with an Air Force test pilot like me? I can fly anything," Sheppard grinned.

"Well, at least some things are constant," muttered McKay straightening and groaning as he stood up.

"So did you find the source of the mechanical problem that brought us down," asked Sheppard as he stared at the control panels of the front of the craft. It was certainly more comfortable looking than the cramped cockpit of his Apache. Some sense of familiarity and belonging tugged at the back of his mind, but he quickly pushed it aside, attributing it to the day's tiring events.

"Mechanical problem? It was probably your piloting that brought us down," snapped McKay trying to stretch out his sore shoulders and neck without pulling too much on his wounds.

Sheppard shrugged. "I'm assuming this thing has some sort of top-secret stealth technology because I'm not seeing any jamming gear or heavy weapontry. And yes, mechanical issues. That's been a bigger problem out here than actually getting shot at. The maintenance crew sees so much as chip in the paint and they'll ground that chopper. Of course, this is a prototype so there must have been some pressure to test this, prove the military was going to get their money's worth. I've seen it plenty of times before." He misinterpreted the look of disbelief on McKay's face as being insulted so he added, "That's why you pulled me off my normal duty rotation, right? Because even after the test pilot group was disbanded due to budget cuts, you guys still needed me? You know I'm the best."

There was something wistful in Sheppard's tone, some basic need for validation, like he wasn't sure he'd made the right move in a life-changing decision, which caught Rodney off-guard. "Yes, Sheppard you're the best," he stammered finally, deciding that if Sheppard was momentarily re-living the past, chances were he wouldn't remember anything Rodney said (and hold it against him later). It also sparked an idea to get Sheppard to open up a little about his past, if he could manage. He walked, shivering, towards the fire and the small pile of supplies that had remained in the jumper or that Sheppard had been able to find in the immediate vicinity. The colonel certainly hadn't been kidding when he said the temperature would drop with the sunset. However, McKay did find some small comfort that the few MREs remaining were among his favorites. At least something had gone right.

He caught Sheppard watching him as he settled down and ate, a small grin on his face. "What?"

"Never knew someone who enjoyed those so much."

"So, how did you end up flying choppers after being a test pilot?" asked McKay around a forkful of chicken.

"I always liked flying, was good at it, and choppers are interesting."

"Would have figured you a hotshot, top-gun type of flyboy."

Sheppard, seated across from him, shrugged as he stared into the fire, "They're fun. Flown a couple, experienced the joys of nine Gs more than a few times, but it all boils down to basic physics – power and aerodynamics. Want a faster plane, design a better engine, modify a wing. Just basic stuff. Helicopters on the other hand, they're so much more complex. Birds make it look so easy but to simply hover in place, we just can't like that. And Leonardo was designing helicopters before anyone really understood the mechanics of flight. Wild."

"So you could have designed planes and helicopters."

"Not the same thing. There's just that moment of floating, of understanding what everything that flies does naturally, to just feel that…" he trailed off slightly embarrassed at his description. "Anyhow, the Air Force needed good pilots here, and when my project was cut for budgetary reason, they gave the assignment. I'm not sure if I should be telling you this, although a lot of its probably in the file they gave you."

"Actually, there really wasn't," answered McKay going for the truth.

"It's not so bad, really. Mostly pickups and drop-offs for special forces. Glad I didn't get assigned to medevac, those guys have a short lifespan. Pressure of the job, hauling ass with some eighteen-year-old in the back bleeding out, or worse, MPs guarding some insurgent, medics debating whether or not it's worth it to save his life." He paused for a moment, then added, "Don't worry. I did get some medical training. They made us practice bandaging and suturing on these pigs. I'd never seen so much blood before in my life. Couldn't eat bacon for a few weeks afterwards either."

Oh thanks a lot," muttered McKay, seeing the grin with the last statement. "You had to wait until I was eating." He did, however, look down at his tattered shirt and the white bandages, some of which were also partially reddish-brown.

"We'll check those in the morning," added Sheppard, seeing McKay touch them a little hesitantly. "Right now I'm going to do another sweep of the area, but we should get settled for the night. As if on cue, the wind, which had been fairly calm while they had been eating, picked up and both men shivered in their shirts.

"Great, just great. Now all we need is a bear or something howling," grumbled McKay.

"Bears don't howl," corrected Sheppard over his shoulder as he checked his P-90, wondering why he had it rather than an M16 and why he felt so accustomed to it.

"This is Pegasus, not Afghanistan, colonel," retorted McKay out of earshot. "Anything's possible."

The anemic sun struggled above the horizon after too short a night for both men. McKay struggled awake when the call of nature finally won out. He reluctantly struggled out of the warm metallic cocoon and realized with a start that most of the heat was generated by a still-sleeping Sheppard. Those two facts, separately,? were unusual, put together, they were alarming.

"Colonel, wake up!" exclaimed McKay as he checked Sheppard's temperature as best he could and tried to determine if the fever was from an undisclosed injury. The man might not know where or when he was, but some things never seemed to change. Either McKay's hands were colder than he thought or he hit a sore spot, because Sheppard suddenly woke up, hazel eyes shifting from bleary to alert in microseconds.

"What?" he asked, quickly reaching for the P-90. "Someone out there?"

"Colonel, you were still sleeping and you're burning up from fever."

"Stop calling me colonel, it's Major. I'm fine, just a little warm and tired, which isn't good, but I'll be fine. We'll have breakfast, then you can get back to trying to fix this ship – puddlejumper was momentarily on the tip of tongue – and I'll get some water. We lucked out that there's a stream nearby and I'll take another look at your wounds," he gestured towards McKay's chest.

"Eww," gulped McKay, seeing the addition of several greenish-yellow splotches on the bandages. "That can't be good." He gulped again, several worst-case scenarios playing out I his mind. Careful probing only added to the splotches and increased his anxiety levels.

"You'll be fine. Eat something," Sheppard shoved part of an MRE at him, then shrugged. "We might need to start rationing. I know they'll come looking for us, but getting approval must be a bureaucratic nightmare, especially if this is a civilian operation. Sometimes," he trailed off, a wary expression on his face.

McKay ate slowly, reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire and suddenly feeling any little tug on his chest. There also appeared to be something Sheppard wasn't telling him, but the colonel remained silent through the rest of their shared meal, starting at every little noise, and more than once leaping to his feet, weapon at the ready. At least his wounds didn't look as bad as he expected, but they did sluggishly ooze fluid and McKay shivered violently as Sheppard poured more alcohol over them, both from the sudden cold and the pain. The colonel was unapologetic for that action, but was almost gentle when re-taping the gashes. "Stay close. Don't wander to far if I'm not here." Sheppard handed McKay the 9 mil he'd found. "You know how to use this?"

"You taught me, remember," grumbled McKay as he pulled the remains of his shirt down, ignoring the skeptical look the pilot shot him. Most of the morning passed quickly – Sheppard seemed content to haul water, keep the fire going and patrol, but as the day wore on, McKay could clearly see the man was having difficulty walking a straight line. The scientist knew he should stop his work and talk to the colonel, see how he was feeling, but he knew from previous experience Sheppard would simply brush it off or downplay any injuries. Still, he could see the rivulets of sweat on Sheppard's face despite the cold temperature. The temperature had not climbed during the day and the coming evening would likely be even colder than the previous. When Sheppard called him over to split another MRE. Both men's breath punctuated the air between them like exhaust from a sputtering car engine.

"I was able to set up a broadcast signal, try to let them know where we are," began McKay carefully, watching Sheppard's face tighten. "Don't worry, only our people will be able to find us – they're the only ones who know these frequencies." Sheppard relaxed by only a few degrees.

"Maybe, but the Taliban know these mountains like no one else. They might not be able to pick up the signal, but they could simply stumble across us, or they simply know we're here and are waiting." Sheppard turned back towards the fire. "Usually they like to go after bigger craft, Blackhawks over Apaches, higher body count. In this case, with survivors, especially a civilian," he trailed off, refusing to look at McKay. "I'll keep watch. You should get some sleep."

McKay shivered, but he wasn't sure if it was the cold or what Sheppard had just said. His chest had started itching and he could feel the additional heat his bandaged wounds were producing, which couldn't be good. He knew Sheppard was trying to treat him as best he could, and Rodney thought of the various plants they'd originally been transporting back to Atlantis, but it was all brown and green plant pieces to him. Katie had had been ecstatic about one or two in particular, theorizing possible uses for them, but he hadn't been paying attention, at least to what she was saying. H sighed, hopefully tomorrow they'd both feel better, Sheppard would shake off his crazy delusions, and someone would find them. And ZPMs grew on trees.

Stacking a few additional pieces of would he'd scavenged, Sheppard was struck by the familiarity of the situation – something in the back of his mind told he'd spent many nights like this keeping watch over Dr. McKay, images of coffee and lemons suddenly popping up as he watched the self-proclaimed genius try to find a comfortable position. "No, that's just the exhaustion and altitude talking," he told himself, fighting heavy eyelids. He was half-tempted to go back to the craft – puddlejumper- again sprang to mind and see if there was anything to clear his chest, but he didn't remember anything from his other perusal of the medical kit. He knew he was feeling more out of breath and tired than he should be, but he immediately chided himself for dwelling on his weakness. Now was when the Taliban would likely strike and he had to be ready. Steeling himself, weapon at the ready he stared off into the darkness.

Morning again to early for McKay's liking, but he noticed that the sun was higher than he expected and Sheppard didn't appear to be nearby. Standing up, he tried to stretch and shake off the clinging lethargy and immediately regretted the action. Someone had set up an ant farm in his chest and the ants were using his ribs as scaffolds. When his use of a couple choice curse phrases failed to bring Sheppard into view, adrenaline overrode any pain and he began a panicky search of the immediate area. That panic abated slightly when spotted the colonel slumped nearby, but rose even higher when he failed to rouse the colonel.

"Sheppard, can you hear me? Wake up! Oh crap, you're feverish and delusional. What are we going to do? What am I going to do?" McKay's frantically looked around before pulling the colonel into the puddle jumper, wrapping a blanket around the still-unconscious figure. "When we get out of this, I'm going to start a couple of physics experiments on how sleeping cats and skinny-ass colonels can weigh so much." He spotted a water bottle and tried to get Sheppard to swallow a few mouthfuls.

"Sir? Have we gotten approval? I know where they are. We need to get them, can't leave them out there. It'll be a simple in and out. No one will even know we're there" gasped out Sheppard before going still again. McKay started, unsure of what to make of the sudden outburst and slightly relieved when the colonel appeared to lapse back into sleep. He knew the situation was bad, but he was torn between tending Sheppard and trying to fix a few more things if possible, in the puddlejumper. He decided that the odds of their surviving another night would increase if he could get the back of the jumper fixed as well as the temperature controls. Pushing aside his own pain and weariness, with a muttered "I think you're rubbing off on me," to Shepard, he turned once again to the damaged electronics. Twice he stopped to check on the colonel and found the man's fever had continued to climb, which he attempted to combat by trying to get him to drink water. The second time however, Sheppard began retching, soaking McKay's shirt and pants.

"Crap. Don't you dare die on me Colonel! I could kill you right now, but I probably feel about as you do, and wouldn't be able to fully enjoy it, so we'll just have to wait until we're back in Atlantis," he scolded, tying to make sure Colonel was otherwise alright.

"Don't care. The next time, I'm going off to rescue them. Doesn't matter what anyone says. Orders don't matter. Those men could have been saved. Don't care. Don't care, I'm not that important. I'm just a pilot," mumbled Sheppard, sounding both angry and sad. 'Never again." McKay stared, feeling like a voyeur having suddenly received a startling flash into the man's psyche. He very gently cleaned the remaining saliva and mucus from around Sheppard's mouth before attempting to get his fingers to cooperate around the delicate Ancient wiring. Somehow he kept fumbling things and looking over at the colonel, decided a nap couldn't hurt very much, despite some small section of his brain screaming that was very bad idea.

A sudden onslaught of voices startled him awake. "Oh you. About time," he complained before falling back asleep. When awoke again, he didn't immediately recognize where he was, and for a few moments thought Sheppard's delusions were real, spiking a sudden panic.

"Calm down Dr. McKay. You're in the medical bay of the Daedalus. You're going to be fine." Almost immediately his eyes were assaulted by the inevitable penlight and he felt the tug of an IV line as he tried to push it away. Following the tubing he discovered he was hooked up to a fairly complex set of IVs and pumps, one of which seemed to involve re-circulating his blood. "We're chelating your blood right now. Although the computer shards were removed, their appeared to be some residue and trace amounts of heavy metals in the wounds, so we decided to be on the safe side," commented the corpsman, finishing his exam and pushing McKay's hand back. "Add in various bruises, exhaustion, the beginnings of exposure to the elements, and trying to adjust to a high altitude, and the situation could have gotten a little dicey, but you're going to be fine.

"Sheppard," he croaked, trying to sit up, and finding a cup and straw in front of him.

"Colonel Sheppard will be fine," answered Colonel Caldwell, suddenly appearing the doorway. "He appeared to be suffering from exhaustion and exposure like you, which only exacerbated what we we've now diagnosed as the flu." There was a somewhat amused look on Caldwell's face.

"He thought," began McKay somewhat hesitantly, unsure if he wanted to complete the sentence.

"Colonel Sheppard made a couple references to Afghanistan, yes," answered Caldwell, his face softening for a moment. "I have to say, the landscape is uncannily similar. He should be waking up soon, let me know when he does," added Caldwell, he last statement directed to the corpsman. "I'm afraid you and the Colonel will have to remain on the Daedalus."

"Oh," commented Rodney, trying not to panic and assume that Sheppard hadn't gone permanently off the deep end.

"We were asked to do some astronomical surveys as well as little reconnaissance. You're welcome to help when you feel up to it." offered Caldwell graciously. "I don't approve of everything Sheppard's done, but I understand he's had his reasons," added the Colonel cryptically. McKay slunk back against the pillows to try and figure that one out and wait for Sheppard to wake up.

Sheppard's first thought consciousness slowly crept in was "I can breathe," as a nasal canula tickled his nostrils. He was in an infirmary, not the middle of nowhere, which was oddly comforting.

"Hey sleeping beauty awakes! Well, maybe not sleeping beauty. I think your cowlicks had calves, the way your hair looks right now," exclaimed a familiar voice, banishing the last vestiges of sleep.

"McKay?"

"Yes, we're alive, once again thanks to my brilliance," groused the man in question, appearing visibly relieved. The crash and the hauntingly familiar landscape came rushing back, and he was glad when someone over to check his vitals and reflexes so he wouldn't be forced to find a suitable retort. Yes, he did know where he was and what year it was, but for a moment, in the wreckage of the puddlejumper, he could have sworn he was back in Afghanistan. From the look on McKay's face as he answered the medical staff's questions, he must have been more than a little vocal with his memories. Still the exhaustion, the shock of the landscape, and his decision to defy orders after a stupid administrative delay cost Mitch and Dex their lives; maybe he'd been under a little more stress than he wanted to admit. Memory was a funny thing, maybe Proust had been right about the smallest things transporting one back. Still, something about it all was a little unnerving.

McKay was oddly silent for the next few hours, aside for the running commentary on the food they were served, but most of that could have been due to his accepted demands for a laptop, which he soon busied himself with. He did appear to be experimenting with ways to position it further from his body before giving up with a sigh. "I guess there'd be some irony if I did die from one of these," he shrugged. "Maybe I need to revise that cliché about the pen and the sword."

Sheppard was fairly content to be alone with his thoughts and his attempts to charm the medical staff. However, he couldn't keep mulling over what he might have said.

"McKay," he began, switching to a languid drawl of "Rodney," which earned him a glare. "Down on the planet, uh, I'm not sure about everything," he hesitated.

"Well, what I can remember is trying not freeze my ass off and find a way to signal someone. The rest is just a blur," answered McKay looking him straight in the eye.

'Good news gentlemen, we've decided you no longer have to remain guests of the infirmary," interrupted a medic, setting down a bundle of clothing on each bed. McKay eyed the contents on Sheppard's bed.

"Seriously, all that black? Do you approach your closet with a flashlight?" demanded McKay as curtains were pulled.

Sheppard had to laugh. Nothing had changed,

Written for friendshipper who wanted a story" in which Sheppard and McKay are both hurt (or ill, impaired, or whatnot) and trapped/isolated/stranded somewhere, having to rely on each other to get out of whatever mess they're in. Preferably the whole scenario would involve hypothermia (cold weather, cold water, etc), because I am a total sucker for that."

Part of this story is selfishness on my part – one of my cousins is currently flying Apache helicopters in Afghanistan (he'll finish his tour at the end of January) and some of the details he shared, like the fact that Apache cockpits are really tight (he's 5'8" and feels squashed) had to be incorporated, but some of this was hard to write.


End file.
